Page 96 of Revenge Puck

“I came here to have dinner,” she says, but there’s no conviction behind it. “I was starving.”

“Sure you did.”

That earns me a look.Fiery. A challenge. The kind of look that says she mightbesweet, but she likes this back and forth as much as I do. Likes the tug-of-war.

I lace our fingers together and guide her toward the kitchen. The scent of garlic and red wine hits us as we round the corner, the sauce bubbling on low heat on the stove. The overhead lights cast everything in a warm glow, domestic as fuck, which feels absurd considering how charged the air was thirty seconds ago.

She slows when she sees it all laid out, head on a swivel. Pasta waiting to be dropped. Bread sliced. Wine breathing on the counter.

I pull out one of the counter stools and pat it. “Sit.”

Drop another kiss below her ear.

I turn back to the stove before I do something reckless like drag her off that seat and forget the entire concept of dinner.

“Try this,” I say, dipping a wooden spoon into the sauce.

She leans forward automatically, mouth parting.

I pause. “Careful. It’s hot.”

“So are you,” she shoots back, then her eyes widen like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

A slow grin spreads across my face. “Are you flirting with me, Juliette Kennedy?”

“I’m complimenting your cooking.”

“You haven’ttastedit yet.”

She rolls her eyes but leans in again, waiting for me to lift the spoon to her lips. She blows on it, then licks the sauce with her tongue, closing her lips around the edge carefully.

My gaze drops to her mouth, causing more twitching in my lower half.

She hums. “Delicious. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” I grin, turning back toward the stove to drop the pasta in the boiling water, set the timer, and go about pouring us each a small glass of red wine.

“You’re very comfortable in here,” she says.

“It’s my kitchen.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I glance over at her. “I know.”

She rests her chin in her palm, studying me like I’m the one on display now. And maybe I am. Shirt sleeves pushed up. Hands moving with purpose. I’m always focused when I have a goal.

An endgame.

Domestic competence is a weapon, and I wield it when I have to; all of my ex-girlfriends would agree.

I can cook.

I can fix things.

She accepts the glass when I hand it to her, fingers brushing mine. “So, this is your move?”

“Mymove?”